


Guardian Angel

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Bestiality, Blood and Gore, M/M, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shadowy spectre is following Sherlock around London, eliminating his adversaries. Unfortunetly, that scenario seems a bit farfetched to the police...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

Sherlock ducked down an alley and glanced up to the sky, hoping his guardian angel – whether real or imagined – was with him tonight. He sincerely needed it with eight fully armed mob thugs chasing him down. It had all gone to piss tonight, what with the meeting turning out to be a trap. He had thought his cover had been flawless, but clearly he had missed something. It was likely some social nicety that would be obvious to others but absolutely foreign to him.

As had occurred the last three times he’d gotten himself in the shit, a shadow abruptly separated itself from the rest and three men screamed and died before Sherlock could even identify which ones they were. The shadow continued its movement and soon vanished into the darkness on the opposite side of the alley. Sherlock stood stock-still, curiosity preventing him from running and saving his skin. The white glow of eyes peered out of the darkness and a primitive chill went up his spine as fight or flight instincts pumped chemicals through his brain; the hairs on the backs of his arms and neck stood up straight. He heard a very low growl, then the eyes turned and the shadow melted closer to the wall and he heard a scrabbling sound as his shadow climbed up onto the fire escape.

_So it has legs, at least_.

“Wait! Just a moment! I… I want to thank you!” Sherlock threw out, though he really didn’t. He wanted to _see_ it, and if possible study it.

The creature made it up to the roof in record time despite being apparently quite bulky and Sherlock sighed in frustration. He moved to the side just in time to inadvertently avoid a bullet from the remaining five thugs. He bolted and they and his shadow guardian were in hot pursuit. He heard them fighting and waited a moment before creeping around the corner. The shadow was gone and Sherlock was left with five dead, dying, or unconscious mobsters.

            **To: Lestrade  
            You aren’t going to like this SH**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
            What have you done?**

**To: Lestrade  
            Found a crime scene. Those mobsters I was chasing after. They’re dead, or most of them are. I’ve called for an ambulance, but I’m not sure they’re going to make it. Nothing more I can do. Something attacked them. Only theory so far is a very large dog. SH**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
            Text me your location. I’m on my way.**

“That cabbie shot two weeks ago, then that serial rapist strangled around the corner from your flat… Sherlock, this the third time people have died around you in under a month, you know that?” D.I. Lestrade sighed as he sat Sherlock down in an interrogation room for the first time in six years.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock replied, accepting a bottle of water.

“You also aware that it looks like you’re killing them?”Lestrade asked tiredly.

“Yes.”

“Is that a confession?”

“No, of course not! It’s not me. I’m not even sure how it’s being done _and it happened right in front of me_. You have no idea how maddening this is, Detective Inspector, I’m being stumped by a vigilante!”

Sherlock was released once again; they had nothing to charge him with and Lestrade really didn’t want to in the first place. Sherlock had solved more murders than they thought he’d committed… so far. He walked along the street, ignoring the eerie feeling that he was being watched; he was. Either that or he was truly going insane. Sherlock hadn’t really decided which. His vision was skulking along the rooftops, and though Sherlock had an intense urge to chase it down he had run himself ragged last time and still not caught it. While he seemed to have the advantage in knowledge of the streets this creature seemed to be able to fly, or at least glide, or perhaps it was simply made of shadow and _wafted_.

“ _Wafting_ imaginary friends, my god, what fresh lunacies have I descended to?”

“Did you get in trouble?” A rough gravely voice asked from the shadows to his right. He’d lost track of his specter. It had dropped soundlessly down into the alley beside him.

_Danger!_

“Yes and no. They think I’m a fresh take on Jack the Ripper, but they have no proof and no idea how it was done so they let me go,” Sherlock did not try to approach. Last time he had it had bolted mid sentence. He needed data and verbal communication was going to have to do.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try not to kill them. I just don’t know how to control this… body… or whatever it is.”

“You could turn yourself in,” Sherlock suggested insincerely. He needed data.

“No. I haven’t killed anyone who wasn’t a threat to someone,” The creature argued, sounding a bit offended.

“So you’re a morally based vigilante, it’s still against the law and you’re still amassing a body count.”

“I’m protecting you. You work for the police.”

“I work _with_ them, that’s a bit different. I don’t make arrests, I discover facts and turn them in… eventually… and I never _kill_ anyone.”

“You don’t seem bothered by it, either.”

“Naturally, those people are a waste of space and a blot on humanity. That doesn’t mean I want to go to jail for their deaths.”

“I’ll stop killing them unless I have to.”

“I am very good at protecting myself, you know. I’m quite skilled.”

“Not skilled enough.”

Sherlock felt rather than saw the shadow leave and he was left cold and alone in the street once more with much less information than a deductive genius like himself was used to having.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/19824.html)

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was in the A&E with a broken and bleeding arm. Lestrade was standing nearby questioning the nurses and trying to get Anderson to consider another theory besides ‘ _He used his own weapon on himself to make him look innocent’_.

Sherlock watched as the nurse stitched up his arm, frowning irritably at the piss poor job she was doing. Finally he pitched a fit and pulled his arm away shouting at her for her incompetence.

“I have enough scars, thank you very much, you sorry example of a public education!”

“Excuse me, what seems to be the problem here Mr…” The blonde doctor (army doctor, recently invalided home from overseas, early forties, depressed, psychosomatic limp) scooped his chart off of the nearby counter and gave it a glance.

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock supplied.

“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Watson. Although… you are here a fair bit, perhaps we have met. I see you’ve got a nasty cut _and_ a broken arm. That’s going to be a bother. We’ll need to do an air cast until the stitches come out, otherwise you might get a nasty infection.”

“You’ll first have to locate someone capable of stitching me up in a relatively straight line!” Sherlock ranted, “I suggest starting with a first year grade school student. I understand they’re required to be able to draw one before graduating preschool!”

Dr. Watson laughed and shook his head, “You’re a feisty one. How about we let me have a try?”

“Only if you pull this mess out first!” Sherlock snarled, waving his arm around.

“It might scar worse if I do that,” Dr. Watson warned.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and the man nodded his head and shooed the distraught nurse out with a consolatory word. He then set about gently cutting and removing the previous stitches.

“This is an ugly wound. What did this, then? Not a knife, not an animal… at least none I’ve ever seen before,” Dr. Watson mused, apparently to himself.

“I believe there’s a reward out regarding it’s identification, a picture of it, or it’s capture – dead or alive – so if you happen to work it out, do tell me.” Sherlock groused.

“You sound awfully put out, I take it you got this trying to catch it or snap a picture?”

“Actually it saved my life, my injury was an accident,” Sherlock stated, then immediately wondered why he’d told this man that. He hadn’t told Lestrade, “I’m a consulting detective. I was tracking down the two men it killed while protecting me.”

“Well, maybe it’s not so bad after all, eh?”

“It’s killed a dozen people now. Shot one, strangled another, ripped eight of them to shreds, and drowned two today.”

“I think I saw this on the news, they were all criminals, weren’t they?”  

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose they weren’t very nice people,” He stated factually.

“No. I suppose they weren’t.”

“Well, that’s one cut; now onto the next. So, tell me more about this detective work you do?” Dr. Watson stated cheerfully.

Sherlock looked down in surprise and realized that the smallest gash was indeed done up with absolutely perfect stitches. John pulled off the gauze on the next one, added more numbing agent and went to work on the second gash.

By the time Sherlock was stitched up and bound in a removable cast he realized he was contemplating this man a bit more studiously than he usually did. He had listened to Sherlock’s cases and was genuinely amazed by them, exclaiming several times that Sherlock was brilliant. Sherlock analyzed his thoughts and physiological reactions and decided he found the doctor attractive, both his body and his personality. His mind left a bit to be desired, of course, but that was hardly a new complaint of his.

“Would you like to go out to dinner?” Sherlock asked on a whim, “I know a fantastic Thai restaurant. I got the owner off of a larceny charge.”

“As fascinating as that story sounds, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” Dr. Watson replied as he washed his hands in the nearby sink.

“Ah, tomorrow then?” Sherlock queried.

Dr. Watson blinked in apparent surprise, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. I’m not gay, is all; I mean it’s fine, if you are, it’s just…”

“I _know_ it’s fine,” Sherlock replied a bit defensively.

“Right. Okay,” Dr. Watson was clearly uncomfortable.

“I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock replied, feeling out in left field. He’d never attempted to pick someone up before and he hadn’t really thought about being turned down.

“Oh! Bollocks, I’m sorry,” John laughed, “Most of my patients don’t find me interesting enough to take out to dinner strictly for the conversation, not that at my age the other sorts of dinners are popping up much either. Yes, certainly, but it would have to be lunch. Here? I can check on that for you while I’m at it.”

Dr. Watson nodded to Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock agreed to meet him for lunch in the café across the street the next day. Unfortunately, Dr. Watson stood him up and he was too embarrassed and inexperienced to march in and demand a reason why. Sherlock put it down as another person who looked down on him because they were jealous of his intellectual prowess and annoyed by his lack of social skills, and decided he felt sorry for the doctor. In his profession it was probably quite the blow to suddenly realize there was someone a hundred times more brilliant than you were; it had probably messed with his god complex.

 

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Guardian Angel Ch 3

Sherlock leaned forward and peered at the CCTV footage. You could see arms, legs, a head, and… wings?

“Feeling reassured?” Mycroft droned.

“You do see it, too?” Sherlock asked.

“Obviously, has this person really gotten you this stirred up?” Mycroft asked, the lack of concern in his voice bellying his words.

“Can you clean the picture up? Get a better image?”

“Of course.”

Mycroft’s waved a lazy hand to ‘Anthea’ – it wasn’t her real name – and the woman slipped her mobile between her breasts and sat down in the computer chair Sherlock was leaning on. He immediately stepped back to give her room to work, though the urge to hover was nearly overwhelming. A few minutes later and she called him over.

“There, best we can do with a moving shot, and he’s never still,” Anthea informed.

Sherlock left the fireplace and his brandy in favor of viewing the screen. Mycroft was already there and he let out a laugh.

“What is that, a Halloween mask? And a cape!? Does he think himself a superhero?”

Sherlock leaned against the chair and Anthea vacated it with a look of disgust. Sherlock gratefully sat in it and stared hard, memorizing what little that could be seen.

It did look like a mask, but only because the features were stretched in an enraged snarl, mouth gaping and long teeth flashing. It had long, large, pointed ears. The hair on its head was short, but flaring up from the movement it had been making when the camera caught it in a brief flare of light from the stores parking lot. The creature had one arm raised over its head with razor sharp talons on the tips. Sherlock remembered the moment perfectly in his mind, though he had only seen its outline in the darkened alley. It was about to bring those claws down on a human being, severing their jugular and ending their lives as surely as a blade drawn across a throat. All because that particular human had decided Sherlock was pretty and tried to snog him in the alley outside the mart Sherlock had been visiting to pick up groceries.

Sherlock had been amenable to the idea, though likely only because of Dr. Watson snubbing him twice over: first when he dismissed the idea of a date and then when he _missed_ their lunch date. He and the now deceased had slipped into the alley, placed their groceries on a stoop, and then the forward gentleman had pressed Sherlock against a wall and started groping him as he attempted to stick his tongue in his mouth. Sherlock hadn’t allowed the tongue part, it was incredibly unhygienic, but he had allowed the kisses across his cheek and down his neck. The man had been fumbling with his fly when the creature had swooped in, dragged him backwards and thrown him against the wall.

Sherlock had shouted for the creature to stop, but it had roared like a lion and the terrified man- with suspected broken ribs- had made a desperate attempt to get away. The creature had made a move to grab him and its claws had rent his neck wide open, coating Sherlock in arterial spray. The creature had growled at him not to let strangers touch him and then had vanished.

Sherlock had been well and truly terrified. He had called Mycroft first instead of Lestrade this time, and the man had picked him up in one of his fancy cars- just as the police had started questioning him- with a few blankets to keep the mess at bay. Sherlock was currently dressed in Mycroft’s older clothes, which looked ridiculous on him, but he was hardly concerned about appearances now. Lestrade had seemed particularly concerned about him this time; probably because Sherlock had been shaking and babbling like a fool. He distinctly remembered saying ‘it was just a _snog,_ how did that man deserve to die?’.

Sherlock’s mobile went off, and he glanced at it. Lestrade.

**Thought you should know your boogieman is smarter than you are. GL**

**  
That has yet to be determined SH**

**  
The man you decided to have a snog with in an alley is a convicted rapist. He just got released last week on parole. A woman came to see us today claiming she’d been tied up in the perverts closet for a week. Says an ‘angel’ let her out right after the creep died. You might have made a new friend if you’d let him take you back to his. GL**

**That’s impossible. I’d have been able to tell within a few moments of meeting him. SH**

**Maybe you can’t read other sociopaths? GL**

**That is a possibility. I will research it. SH**

**Just so long as you research it by going to a prison and talking to them. I don’t want to find your corpse somewhere. GL**

**That would be highly inaccurate. I’ll find a subject outside of jail. SH**

Sherlock ignored the subsequent texts.

“So your guardian angel has _not_ killed in cold blood?” Mycroft asked.

“No, and he’s also been spotted by someone else at a time when I have a solid alibi, which means the police can stop thinking I’m the killer.”

“Convenient. I wonder if he planned it.”

“What, set me up to get snogged by a serial rapist? Unlikely.”

“Perhaps he’d been following that fellow looking for an opportunity, which you happened to present him with. Why _were_ you accepting a ‘snog’ from a madman in an alleyway? You’ve never shown an interest in sex or people before, and certainly not exhibitionism. I’m half inclined to be relieved.”

“It was just an experiment,” Sherlock dismissed lightly.

“If you wish to belatedly discover your sexual identity I can provide you with…”

“No. I am fully aware of my sexual identity, Mycroft, I have no need to ‘find myself’,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Then your experiment was?”

“Unimportant as it has been terminated before a conclusion could be met. Does it look shirtless to you in this picture?”

“Yes, but it’s undoubtedly a body suit of sorts. Your violent friend is apparently going for a Batman theme.”

“Those are wings, not a cape,” Sherlock argued.

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft laughed.

“They are, look at them!”

“Then they’re fake,” Mycroft dismissed.

“They. Are. Real!”

“Sherlock… You’re beginning to alarm me. This is a person, not a monster. He is clearly unstable and out to make a name for himself. You are only feeding his ego trip by drawing a conclusion ahead of the data, which isn’t like you at all, by the way.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He went back to his brandy and stared into the fire as he tried to wrap his mind around his guardian angel being a real solid being and not a figment of his long abandoned imagination.  
  


[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/20465.html)

 


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Guardian Angel Ch 4

The power was out in his flat; someone had deliberately just shut it off. Mrs. Hudson was out and Sherlock was alone in a darkened flat with nothing but his fear for company. Sherlock heard the sound of a window opening, there was a delicate movement by his bedroom door, and then it simply sauntered into the room. Sherlock found himself unaccountably aroused, and trembled with that and fear as the creature slipped across the room towards him. It seemed familiar with the layout of his flat and easily avoided the beaker-laden table and settled into the chair opposite him.

“Let me see your arm,” It growled out, and Sherlock extended as he let out shaky breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

The curtains behind Sherlock were drawn, otherwise he might have had some light to go with, but the only sources of light in the room were coming from this thing’s glowing eyes. It seemed to need no light as it gently removed his air cast and examined his arm.

“No sudden moves. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“I am aware. You have no control, you said.”

“Sharp claws and lots of muscle will do that.”

“I owe you thanks. You killed someone who might have done me serious harm, and I might have just walked right into his trap.”

“I didn’t know what he was at the time. I went back to his flat after looting his wallet, intending on turning myself in when the police got there. Finding that woman was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Do you believe in monsters?”

“No.”

“Then what am I to you?”

“I’ve already confirmed you are not a figment of my imagination,” Sherlock paused in his discussion as the thing brought his arm to its face and sniffed the wound.

“No infection, good. You should go back to the hospital in two days and have a proper cast put on,” The creature quickly re-strapped the air cast onto his arm.

“I’ve also decided you are not of typical human proportions,” Sherlock continued.

The thing laughed and leaned forward, it’s breath tickling his ear as it suddenly was overwhelmingly close to him.

“You have no idea,” It purred into his ear, and Sherlock moaned.

The creature withdrew and released Sherlock’s arm. He was left there, panting with desire and completely unsatisfied as it got up to leave.

“You’re also… also trained in medicine,” Sherlock stammered, hoping to keep it interested enough to remain.

“What makes you say that?”

“You handled my injury with experience. A great deal of it, I should say.”

“Hmph, you make me sound old. Fine, believe what you want. Good day, Detective.” The gravely voice departed, taking with it all of the warmth in the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“ _Sir_ Arthur Conan Doyle?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow to Lestrade.

“Apparently. It’s a username for a fanfiction page. This guy’s writing stories on the internet, he claims based on the news stories on the television talking about our perp, but he knows way too many details. Take a look for yourself.”

Sherlock sat at Lestrade’s desk and read over the descriptions of himself brilliantly stalking down criminals using logic and an advanced mind… only to have them snatched back from the jaws of justice by this powerful creature that skulked in the night. All of the stories were written from the point of view of the creature, which called itself ‘The Cursed Beast’, or simply CB. Some of them contained beautiful descriptions of flying over London in the dead of night. It also detailed how the creature didn’t want to kill, but that it was compelled to in order to protect ‘the handsome and distant detective’ that it was strangely drawn to.

“This is where all your latest cases have been coming from, by the way. I’ve traced a majority of these people commenting about knowing you back to your clients in the last two months. He’s a fucking referral service for you.”

“You haven’t traced him?” Sherlock asked as he read a detailed observation of the creature checking Sherlock’s wounded arm over two months ago. It sounded so… intimate.

“I’ve gotten close. He’s using a computer in St. Barts to post his stories, but he must not use it to write them up because the computer he’s using is a public desk. No one sits there for lengthy periods of time, and you’d have to be typing hundreds of words per minute to manage that feat.”

“Everyone uses it then.”

“With their own login information. The boys are taking a look at it right now.”

“I can break the name down for you, that might help you get more leverage if he states his login was used by someone else. Sir Arthur is a reference to Arthur Pendragon, so you’re looking for someone who delves into both fantasy and history. Conan is a bastardization of Canon – meaning he believes his stories are fictitious but is sticking relatively close to some pre-conceived script. Now Doyle, _that_ is personal. He is a descendant of the Doyle Clan, but it’s a distant heritage; he doesn’t want to be caught, so you’re looking for someone who isn’t obviously Irish. Perhaps even has more Scottish or English blood, likely a Scottish name. He’s already listed his English heritage by referencing King Arthur, his purpose in Conan, so Doyle is his attempt at personalization. He will identify more with his Irish heritage than his Scottish one. He’s spent time in Ireland or has family there.”

Sherlock stared at Doctor John Hamish Watson through the one-way glass and narrowly resisted the urge to bolt into the room. He had already explained the penname, and it was particularly damning. Dr. Watson was English, Irish, and Scottish, with a Scottish middle name and a sister living in Dublin Ireland who he apparently was on bad terms with. His parents had lived there, too, but were now deceased. He had grown up primarily in Ireland, but had gone to school right here in London, where he took an extra course on English History just because he’d enjoyed it. After returning home form his tour overseas in the Queens Army, he had returned to London despite the high cost simply because he couldn’t stay away.

“So you’re telling me, you have nothing to do with these murders?” Sally Donovan argued, spreading the pictures wide as Lestrade leaned against one wall and narrowed his eyes at the doctor.

“I’m a doctor. I give life- whenever possible- I don’t take it away.”

“You were also a soldier,” Lestrade piped up.

“I was invalided home. I have a limp and an intermittent hand tremor due to PTSD, how exactly am I overpowering five men at once? On my best days in Afghanistan I couldn’t have done that, and I only ever fired my weapon there when I had to. I was a surgeon. I met Mr. Holmes once under circumstances that you are _well aware of_ , which I won’t go into detail on because he’s still protected by privacy laws even if you were nearby, and he told me about his cases. It was inspiring, so I wrote up some fanfiction about it. It’s just fanfiction, that’s all. I’m a bloody fan!”

“You have details about this creature that…”

“Are wholly made up! I have an overactive imagination. Anything broaching realistic is a coincidence!”

That sealed it and Sherlock shoved a PC’s attempts to stop him aside and burst into the room, slamming his hands down on the table. He met Dr. Watson’s eyes and held them.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sherlock breathed, and waited for the response.

“Well, I do,” Dr. Watson replied without even blinking. In fact, he hadn’t even done so when Sherlock had slammed his hand down on the table.

“There are two kinds of fans. Catch me before I kill again: type A.”

“And?” Watson asked with a raised eyebrow, “What’s the other, then?”

“My bedroom is just a taxi ride away: type B.”

Watson snorted and rolled his eyes, “Guess which one I am, then?”

“Neither,” Sherlock replied, and narrowed his eyes as he considered the man before him.

“You’ve been misdiagnosed, doctor,” Sherlock informed him, “You aren’t damaged by the battlefield, you miss it.”

“Miss being shot at and watching my friends die?”

“Miss the adrenalin, the excitement, the rise and fall of battle. Hold up your hand… there, you see? You’re under a great deal of stress right now and it’s perfectly steady,” Sherlock gloated.

“I’m not under stress right now, Detective. You and these fine officers don’t scare me. I’ve done nothing wrong except borrow your name to write silly stories. I’ll change it if you like,” He offered.

“Keep it,” Sherlock replied, and hurried back out of the room before he could do something mad like kiss the man.  
  


[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/20650.html)

 


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Guardian Angel Ch 5

Sherlock paced on the other side of the one-way mirror while Dr. Watson sat inside the interrogation room, completely calm and collected.

“You look like _you’re_ the one being accused of murder,” Lestrade commented as he stepped into the anteroom, “You want to tell me what’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s easily the worse lie you’ve ever told me.”

“Except it’s the truth,” Sherlock leaned against the wall, “I asked the good doctor out to lunch and he didn’t make it. I doubt he’s as much a fan as he states.”

“You got _stood up_ by him? Wait, no, let’s step back even further… _you asked someone out?!”_ Lestrade gaped.

“I realize most of you think I’m a eunuch, but I assure you the rumors are _false_ ,” Sherlock snarled, “However the lunch date was intended to be of a purely platonic nature. Now, what are you doing out here instead of in there?”

“Letting him stew while waiting for some info. He gave us permission to speak with his therapist and she’s on her way. Should be here in ten.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared through the glass at the man who had filled his fantasies when the illusive creature wasn’t plaguing his mind. If they were one and the same… if they were than he would do everything he could to protect him. Despite logic, and in the name of something more wild and exhilarating than sentiment: perhaps the word _need_ or at least _primal_ applied.

The therapist arrived and sat herself down next to John, fervently defending him. She claimed John was emotionally damaged from the war – which Sherlock already knew was false – and that he was both physically and mentally incapable of committing the crimes.

“Not only is John morally upstanding, but he also has achluophobia, a fear of the dark. It’s utterly debilitating. He never leaves the house when the sun isn’t out. He arranges his work around it, refuses to date, and takes three different prescriptions to combat his anxiety. He is literally incapable of leaving his flat once the sun goes down.”

“That phobia wasn’t on his discharge papers from the service,” Lestrade noted.

“No, it’s something that didn’t show up until after he arrived in London,” The therapist, Dr. Karyn, confirmed.

“Sounds like a cover to me,” Lestrade suggested. 

Sherlock took that moment to open the door, reach in, and flip the lights off. John didn’t budge, but then Sherlock didn’t expect him to. The light was still on in the anteroom, casting a glow into the interrogation room now that it was dark, and he stepped into it knowing that with the lighting change he would be visible to John and the other room’s occupants. John raised his eyes and Sherlock saw him start to panic, eyes widening in horror as Sherlock reached for the switch. Lestrade was on his feet, looking outraged and heading for the light switch by the door. 

Sherlock threw the switch and an inhuman scream filled the room. Lestrade made it to his switch and the lights came back on to reveal John Watson, cowering in the corner. Sherlock watched in fascination as the terrified man sobbed, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around himself. He was still human; there was no doubt about that, but something was off and Sherlock slowly smiled as he realized what it meant.

Lestrade was in the anteroom, demanding to know what Sherlock thought he was doing.

“The therapist is advising him to bloody sue! He’s bashed his head up! I’ve got to call a fucking ambulance for an interrogation for the first time in my fucking career!” 

“Sorry.”

“Like hell you are!”

He wasn’t. Sherlock was not in the least bit sorry, because John’s hideous jumper was torn along both seams under his arms. That wasn’t done by a man in a fit of terror tearing at his clothes, that was done by the contents exceeding the maximum elasticity of the container. It had torn along its weakest point- the seams. He wondered if anything else was torn, and then frowned as he realized those tears were most likely from pain rather than fear. Sherlock adjusted his own package in sympathy. 

The ambulance arrived but John refused to leave with them, stating the sun would be down by the time the hospital released him.

“We can’t let you go with an injury, Mr. Watson,” Lestrade argued gently.

“It’s _Doctor_ Watson, and I’m perfectly fine. Just a bit shaken,” John snapped. 

“The good doctor can come to mine,” Sherlock offered, still grinning from ear to ear, “I can keep an eye on him to make sure he’s all right. I’ll even leave a light on for you.”

There was a moment of horrified silence where everyone stared at Sherlock as though no one could be _that_ insensitive, and then John grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. There was, however, a kind of heat in it that sent blood rushing to Sherlock’s face… as well as other parts.

“Why would I want to spend more time than necessary in your company after that stunt you pulled?” John asked, his voice soft and intense.

Sherlock recognized it for the challenge it was, and not just by the charged atmosphere. It must have been obvious because Lestrade took a step back, giving each of them a startled glance and John’s therapist gave him a distressed one.

Sherlock leaned forward and whispered into the man’s ear: “Because if you do I won’t ask you to turn out your pockets.”

“Yeah, sure, that’ll do,” John replied, his face neutral once more.

“But, John!” Dr. Karyn stammered.

“Good day, all, best of luck catching your murderer,” John stated with a nod to the room in general. 

“Oh, don’t worry. They’re New Scotland Yard. They always catch their… _man_.” Sherlock replied contemptuously, and then sped out the door with John Watson on his heels. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They walked a few blocks and then Sherlock indicated a dumpster, which John obediently emptied his pockets into. He had made quite the good show of not wincing as he stepped across a stoned area in front of New Scotland Yard, despite the fact the soles of his shoes were in his pockets instead of on his feet. Sherlock grinned triumphantly, but John only gave him a sharp glare.

“What now?”

“Now you come to mine, as I stated before.”

“How did you know about my shoes? The remnants are still covering my feet. I was sure they didn’t show once the lights came back on.”

“I deduced that if your upper half had gained mass, which it would have to in order to support your wing span, then the rest of you would as well: namely your hips, thighs, calves, and most importantly your feet in order to maintain stability when landing. By the way, I’ll see you get an icepack for your groin when we get to my flat.”

“That would be appreciated,” John replied, wincing in agony as he adjusted himself once more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Is it possible to see you in full light?” Sherlock asked curiously, “Or even partial?”

Sherlock handed John a glass of water, some pain pills, and a towel full of ice, which he gratefully placed at his groin as he sank into one of the chairs in Sherlock’s flat.

“You can shine as many lights on me as you want after the sun sets. During the day I’m only vulnerable when someone shuts out the lights, but at night I change and there’s no going back until sunrise.”

“You must be the butt of quite an awful lot of pranks at the hospital,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“A fair few, but when the director found out I’d been huddled in a closet one day for four hours straight he put a stop to it.”

“But you don’t _really_ fear the dark,” It wasn’t a question, but John answered it anyway.

“No, but it’s important to keep up illusions.”

“Mmmm, and how exactly did this come about?”

“I’ve no idea, actually. I was touring the Dunnottar Castle ruins in Scotland when I got back from Afghanistan. I got separated from the guide and the group when I saw something flash down a side passage. My curiosity got the better of me, and next thing I knew I was in horrible pain. I looked down and saw claws. I thought I was being attacked by something, didn’t realize they were my own claws, and fled for my life. I’ve never been so horrified. Once I got out of the dark area I found the guide had doubled back for me. I was hysterical, my clothes in shreds, they called the hospital and had me carted off thinking I’d been attacked. That night while I was in the bed it happened again, but painlessly since I was only wearing a hospital gown. A nurse walked in, saw me, and fainted. I fled out the window, which was luckily not far up since I hadn’t figured out how to use the wings yet. I made my way back the next morning after hiding the whole night and trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. The rest you know.”

“Fascinating.”

“Not from this end, it isn’t. So ends my social life. I can’t date, can’t go for a drink with mates, can’t leave my flat unless it’s to help you out, and then I just cause more trouble than I do good.”

“You’ve saved my skin a fair few times, I’m grateful for that.”

“Yes, but at what _cost_. I’ve never thought of myself as a killer, but I’ve got a higher body count now than I did during my term in Afghanistan! Your Detective Inspector is right, I am a serial killer.”

John looked a bit distraught so Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder the way he’d seen other people do when someone was upset. John reached down and undid his trousers and Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. Well… not that he wasn’t thrilled, but that wasn’t what he’d meant.

“The sun’s about to set,” John explained with a blush.

“You can feel it?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see that it wasn’t visible through the blackout curtains he had put up for an earlier experiment.

“Yes, it makes my bones ache.”

“Strange.”

“A bit, yeah. Listen; do you have a spare room I can use? It’s just that I’m pretty hideous like that, so I’ll just go off and once the sun’s down I’ll climb out a window or something.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be possible. Lestrade will be watching the flat. He didn’t buy either of our explanations at all.”

John paled: “I suppose you’ll turn me in once I change?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

“Your attention,” Sherlock stated, realizing the truth even as he spoke it, “The way I have it when you’re usually transformed. Why is that, anyway? Why me?”

“Because you’re brilliant. I saw you one night while I was practicing flying. Lestrade, though I didn’t know who he was at the time, said your name after you helped him apprehend that ring of counterfeiters. I googled it, found your website, and started following you so I could see you in action. After the first time you risked your life like a fool I realized I’d better keep an eye on you before you get that amazing brain of yours smashed in,” John finished with a shrug, as though that were the most obvious reasoning in the world.

Perhaps it was.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask another question but ended up leaving it hanging. The shadows in the room seemed to shift and move towards John. His coloring changed from mildly tanned to a burnished bronze and the whites of his eyes became luminescent. Though his hair remained the same color, it lengthened by several inches, the bangs now hanging in his eyes in wisps. His shoulder’s broadened and he leaned forward as his wings emerged beneath his already torn jumper, which he now removed leaving him in a white vest which had slits already cut in the back. John stood and removed his trousers the rest of the way, revealing shorts underneath that were a size or two larger than necessary in John’s original form. His ears and wings resembled that of a bat, but otherwise he seemed a human who had lifted a great deal of weights and put on too much bronzer. Sherlock was trying rather hard not to drool.

“I’ve been caught out before,” John explained, “So I just wear something under my regular clothes. I can just dump them somewhere and fly home if needed. My bedsit is in a pretty poor neighborhood. No street lamps.”

“Bedsit?” Sherlock asked as John folded the wings and sat down on the edge of the chair. He looked completely drained and rubbed his head as though it ached.

“I’m not pulling a lot of hours at the clinic due to my schedule conflict, and my pension only pays so much. Add to that the fact I have to eat pretty much hourly in order to maintain _this_ , whatever it is, so most of my money goes towards food.”

“You must be starved, then,” Sherlock realized, guessing that the lethargy he was witnessing in the man was from hunger rather then exhaustion.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Take away?”

“Ah, sure.”

“Thai?”

“Definitely.”

“How many pints do you require?” Sherlock asked as he found the number in his phone.

“Ten should do me, I’ll pay if you’ll pass me the phone when they want the card number.”

“No, no, I insist,” Sherlock replied, “So long as you don’t mind me studying you after we eat?”

Sherlock tried not to look at him too greedily, but it must have shown because he looked uncomfortable, but then sighed and nodded.

“Who knows, maybe you can give me some advice. Genius like you, you’ll probably have me cured by morning.”

“Assuming you require a cure, anything is possible.”

John gave him an odd look, but remained silent as Sherlock began ordering in flawless Thai.  
  


[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/20774.html)

 


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Guardian Angel Ch 6

Sherlock watched as John devoured the food as delicately as he could and refrained from wincing at the snarling man/beast in front of him. Once John had downed ten pints of gai med ma moung, he asked for the location of the toilet and headed off to wash up, keeping his cumbersome wings tucked in tightly to his body. Sherlock’s cock gave an eager twitch as the man sat back down and smiled warmly at him.

“Well, I promised you a chance to poke and prod at me. Have at it.”

Sherlock’s mind took that statement down a naughty side quest, but he pulled himself back and carefully rose to fetch a bit of equipment. He studied every inch of the creature in front of him, and quickly discovered aspects about him that John himself had missed.

“Your claws are retractable.”

“Sorry?”

“Retractable. You can just pull those talons in. Do you see this bone running the length of your fingers here?”

Sherlock indicated a hollow bone tube that ran from the tip of John’s fingers down to the second knuckle; in this form John’s first knuckle was no longer in existence at all. Sherlock gently bent the fingers down, ignoring John’s warning hiss, until the claws safely retracted to avoid piercing his own skin. John gaped at him.

“You should be able to use them like this, I believe, though it may take practice.”

John moved his fingers about, tensing and flexing, and noted the moment the claws slid back out. Sherlock had to help him get them back in again, but every time it occurred after that he managed it on his own. John was thrilled and thanked him profusely, praising him until Sherlock thought his chest might burst. He felt that same chemistry he had at the hospital; that this man was meant to be by his side and _understand_ him where no one else ever had.

“You can remove your pants now, please.” Sherlock decided to state, and held his breath while trying to look as though this were ‘all for science’.

John had gaped at him, then took in his look, and nervously slid his pants down to his ankles, gingerly stepping out of them with his rather large, clawed feet. Those claws were retractable, too, but it was much harder for John to do both motions for them. It was going to require more practice.

Sherlock took in the sight of the remarkably large man before him. John was half hard, and looked a bit embarrassed for it, but otherwise stood unashamed. Well he should, because there was _nothing_ to be ashamed about; John was already a good six inches and growing with each lazy twitch. Sherlock felt an ache in his groin as well as a bit of self-consciousness. He had never entered into those childish games of ‘whose got the bigger willy?’ in school, so he had no idea how he compared to the average fellow. He was certain he didn’t compare to _this_ , but he could live with that so long as he wasn’t humiliatingly small.

Sherlock stepped forward, making a show of breathing on his hands to warm them up, then knelt on the floor to get a better look at the man’s privates. That sizable cock twitched and began to swell, leaving Sherlock gaping like a fool at the sight of the head peaking out of the foreskin. It was an auburn color; it had never occurred to him skin could be auburn.

Sherlock was licking the bead of pre-come from the tip before his normally lizard-like brain could tell him it was a bit not good. As it turned out, it was quite acceptable, and Sherlock ran his tongue around it in a circle as John moaned and his cock twitched up and then dropped back down to slap itself on one of Sherlock’s high cheekbones. They both moaned and Sherlock brazenly gripped that cock and lathed it properly… well… what he thought might be properly. Sherlock had never even imagined such a thing being done to him, but now he was frantically trying to anticipate how John would like to be touched.

John was panting and canting his hips a bit, one hand coming to rest on Sherlock’s head, but careful, oh so careful. He could hear the man growl low in his throat and found his mouth suddenly full of cock, which he nervously rubbed his tongue against and then mouthed it gently.

_I prefer a firmer touch on my own body, would he want the same?_ Sherlock wondered, then hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard.

John gasped and moaned, his hips beginning to pump in and out of Sherlock’s inexperienced mouth as the detective did all he could to take as much down. He gagged twice before John pulled away, panting and looking dazed, but pushing Sherlock away nonetheless.

“I’ll hurt you again,” John gasped.

“Never,” Sherlock argued lamely as he crawled across the floor like a slut after that throbbing member.

“Did you miss the ‘again’ part? We can’t do this!”

“You would leave me unfulfilled?” Sherlock asked in utter confusion. That didn’t sit with what he knew of John Watson.

Sure enough the man groaned as though in agony, and shook his head ‘no’. His wispy blonde locks brushing his cheeks. Sherlock stood and brushed them away.

“Then you’ll have to let me continue,” Sherlock stated consolingly.

Sherlock slipped his hands around the creature’s neck and pressed their lips together, but his motions were unsure and awkward. John stepped back once more, gently pushing Sherlock away from him.

“You’re a bit…”

“Inexperienced?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that bother you?”

“A bit… I mean… I’m flattered, but I’m afraid of harming you, now in more ways than one.”

“Nonsense. I’m a grown man, not some blushing sixteen-year-old virgin. You’ll be moving in here and we can date properly after.”

“Moving in?”

“I can’t leave you in a shitty bedsit. Stay here and protect me,” Sherlock purred, slipping his arms around the creature’s neck again.

John groaned and pulled Sherlock against him, but then pushed him away again.

There were several false starts like that, but it still ended with John on his back on the bed and Sherlock leaning over him, slipping a couple of lubricated fingers into that lovely, tight body. John moaned appreciatively and Sherlock panted and slipped another finger in.

“Slowly, Sher,” John panted, but didn’t resist the eager press of digits.

Sherlock had to be physically restrained when he went to press himself inside that strong, hard body. John held his hips firmly as Sherlock pressed inside, a soft moan leaving his throat as he felt himself enveloped in clenching, moist, heat. Sherlock froze then, utterly overwhelmed and about to loose all control; his bollocks drew up threateningly and he took several steadying breaths to stop them.

John was the impatient one this time and rolled them over in one smooth movement. Sherlock found himself gaping up at John as his wings spread out above them and the man gave them a subtle flap that raised him up off of Sherlock’s prick and then dropped him back down. That was far too much for Sherlock’s virginal body and his eyes rolled up into his head as he groaned out his release. John moaned lustily and that was the only thing that stopped Sherlock from pushing him aside and bolting for the door in shame.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John whispered as he eased himself off the detectives body.

“Let me…” Sherlock reached for him, but John grasped his wrist and guided it to his own entrance instead.

“Let me?” John questioned, his voice unsure.

Sherlock almost, _almost_ pointed out that John had been afraid of hurting him. Then he remembered the wanna-be-brute might well flee him if he did that. Instead Sherlock slicked his fingers once more, spread his legs, and made a show of preparing himself that had the bat-like ears quivering and the wings flexing above him hungrily. Once Sherlock had managed four fingers inside of himself, and was panting and sweating as his cock began to harden once more, John snatched him up and pulled him into his lap. Sherlock gripped those powerful thighs with his own and was rewarded with a sultry squeeze of his arse cheeks.

“I’m going to fill you much better than those lovely piano fingers of yours,” John growled.

“Violin,” Sherlock panted as John lifted him and began lowering him onto his cock.

“Hm?” John asked, not really listening.

“I play the violin,” Sherlock babbled, trying to keep his mind working when all that was running through him was this intense burning, stretching, and _filling_ sensation, “Sometimes I don’t talk for days.”

“That’s niiiiice,” John groaned, though he probably meant Sherlock’s arse hole. Hopefully.

“Oh, gods that’s so good,” Sherlock panted, and wrapped his arms more securely around the monster’s neck, his head thrown back in bliss as John’s cockhead slid past his prostate.

Sherlock was completely sheathed around John’s massive cock, his head resting on John’s collarbone as they both took a moment to pant and collect themselves. Then John grasped Sherlock’s hips and lifted him up until only that huge tip remained before pressing him back down and drawing a sob of pleasure from him.

“Joooohn!” Sherlock cried out, scratching at his shoulders as his body became utterly overwhelmed. Blood was quickly pulsing back into his cock and he was utterly at a loss. He had never felt so much desire in his entire life.

“Touch yourself,” John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head and then pressed it into the crook of John’s neck, panting and trembling, as he was repeatedly impaled on John’s member.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock growled, gripping his internal muscles instinctively to keep that blissfully full feeling inside of him.

“Oh, fuck!” John gasped, and sped up, moving Sherlock’s body faster over his cock.

“John!” Sherlock cried out again as he felt himself pressing close to the edge yet again.

“Yes, Sher, yes,” John breathed, “Oh, gods, you’re so tight. _So hot_. Do you have any idea how lovely you are riding my cock like this?”

“Yes!” Sherlock replied, both to acknowledge his pleasure and to let John know that he was fully aware of his own beauty.

John chuckled and then those wings wrapped around Sherlock’s body, ensconcing him in John’s scent and holding him as tightly as a swaddle. Sherlock cried out and braced his feet against the bed, beginning to actively ride his lover’s prick as his desires began to peak. John moaned and moved his hands from his lover’s hips to his buttocks, smoothly aiding his movements. Sherlock wondered at the velvety feel of those wings against his back and thighs and chanted his lover’s name like a mantra.

Sherlock threw his head back again and shouted out his pleasure as he came again, hot spurts shooting over his and John’s bodies; John continued to thrust up into him as he held him close through his climax. John followed shortly after and Sherlock gasped at the feel of John’s hot seed pulsing into his body, trembling at the sheer intimacy of the moment. This was more than an animalistic sexual release; this was a connection unlike any he had ever had with another individual.

They held each other tightly, Sherlock trembling and fighting back tears at the unbelievable closeness he felt to this man: John whispering softly to him and caressing his back with firm fingers. Eventually, he unwound his wings and leaned forward, laying Sherlock down on the bed and sliding gently from his body. He caressed his cheeks, kissed his forehead, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear.

“I’m fine… I’m… stunned,” Sherlock explained when the man began to worry.

“In a good way, I hope,” John asked cautiously.

“Quite,” Sherlock nodded and held his arms up again.

John leaned down over him, kneeling on either side of Sherlock’s hips and hovering protectively over his body. Those long wings settled down, draping down their bodies like a blanket, and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He slept that night, deeper than he ever had in his life, with the rumbling creature crouched over his body. In the morning John explained he no longer, or only very rarely, slept, so he had instead lain across Sherlock’s body all night and simply held him.

“Weren’t you _bored_?” Sherlock asked in horror.

“No, of course not. I was looking at you. How could that be boring?”

[EPILOGUE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/21005.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Guardian Angel Epilogue

Epilogue

John no longer hesitated when he was about to step into darkness: just so long as he was following his detective. As The Shadow he could follow Sherlock with his eyes no matter how pitch black the surroundings, he could swoop in and pull him to safety, he could maim or – rarely these days - kill as needed to protect this brilliant, beautiful, maddening, precious, wonderful man. This was the eighth castle that they had searched for answers to the mystery that was John Watson’s transformation, but he never got tired of following that sure, quick footstep wherever it might lead.

“Take a look at this, John! We’ve found more!” Sherlock called out, shining his torch along the wall where carved runes spelled out more information in a language John couldn’t read if he studied for years.

“What does it say, Sherlock?” John asked, a wing coming up to hover over him as he noticed some debris shifting from the ceiling. Sherlock wouldn’t care if he got dirty, but John liked to protect him from more than harm.

“It says it’s a gift, not a curse. It says here that ‘those who crave to protect with all their hearts, who harbor devotion, will find the power that they need to save their one true love’. It references ‘gargoyles’ again, just like the last two castles did. It calls it magic, but that sort of thing isn’t real,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sherlock, you have sex with a living breathing gargoyle on a regular basis, what makes you question the existence of magic?”

“Well, I haven’t seen proof yet, have I?” Sherlock asked with a dignified sniff, “Oh! Here’s something. It says you can control it… hmmm.”

“We already knew that. I did it during the daytime, but only once. When you _jumped from a fucking_ _building_.”

“I was trying to protect you!” Sherlock snapped, eagerly stepping back into the old argument.

“It’s my job to protect you. This ancient wall says so!”

“Bugger the wall! And bugger you, too!”

Sherlock stomped off in a strop and John followed after him, his blood already boiling as his clothes went from tight to baggy when they stepped out into the light again… well, one part was still tight. Sometimes he loved to argue with Sherlock. The makeup sex was… well… _breathtaking_ was just the beginning.

So the moonrise found them snarling and grasping at each other. Sherlock was a wild thing in bed after a tantrum: he bit and scratched and pulled John’s hair before pinning him down to their hotel bed. John allowed it, of course, he was far stronger than Sherlock in this form and could have knocked him across the room like a rag doll had he wanted to, but there was something to be said for merely goading him on and then letting him win.

Sherlock lubed himself up and only fingered John for a moment before thrusting in. The woefully incomplete preparation made John groan, but Sherlock stilled and stroked his hip lovingly until he was ready. Then he fucked him fast and hard, just like John liked it.

As usual when they began this wild lusty romp, Sherlock hit a point where he began to flounder, clutching at John’s shoulders and crying out for him as though _he_ were the one being fucked without being given the courtesy of a hand job.

“John! Please! Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, gods, JOHN! Please! I need you! _John_!!”

John rolled them over, knowing full well what Sherlock needed that left him begging. He was utterly obsessed with seeing John spread out on top of him. John raised himself on his knees and kept up Sherlock’s punishing pace, impaling himself down on that long, throbbing cock as fast and hard as his large muscles could manage. His wings spread out above him like a peacock’s tail, fanning them both and aiding his movements until John was practically flying while making love to his brilliant detective. He was moving slowly now, but there was no less passion. Papers fluttered around the room, a pen rolled onto the floor, and John knocked a lamp over with his wingtip. None of it was noticed.

Sherlock was a babbling mess, calling him names that ranged from ‘oh, my darling’ to ‘you fiend, you beast!’ and everything in between. John particularly liked the ‘winged cockslut’ bit, and would have to remember to tease Sherlock about it later. Sherlock grasped John’s cock and fisted him firmly as John moved steadily faster over Sherlock’s aching member. He was using his legs again now, keeping the pace steady and headed towards the release they both needed so badly.

He knew Sherlock was close when he stopped talking. He would simply gasp and stare up at him as though he’d never seen him before and John had simply fluttered down and landed on his cock for his own perverse pleasure. That look of surprised bliss never failed to send John spiraling over the edge and he came across Sherlock’s fist and sweaty torso. Sherlock grunted out his own release, eyes rolling back in his head and mouth gaping wide. John groaned blissfully as Sherlock’s open mouth inadvertently caught a strand of come from John’s still spurting cock. He ran his fingers through the mess he’d made and licked some of it off his fingers the moment Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sherlock groaned and closed them again, probably too tired to have another go and too aware that such a display would set him off again. John chuckled and went to get a wet flannel to clean them up a bit. When he got back it was to find Sherlock riffling through one of his bulky books again. John sat on the bed behind him and reached around to wipe him clean as he kissed his detective’s neck.

“You’re getting gooseflesh. Come lie down a bit. I’ll tuck you up under my wing?”

“Mmmmmm, you spoil me John.”

“You think you’re entitled to it anyway.”

“I _am_ entitled.”

“Git.”

“Monster.”

“I love you,” John replied without thinking, and then held his breath in shock. It was the first time either of them had ever said it aloud. Oh, their actions spoke well enough, but these were the actual _words_ and communication still failed them as often as it succeeded.

“Oh,” Sherlock stated, as though genuinely surprised.

“It’s fine, Sherlock, you don’t have to…”

“I do too… love you, that is. Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know… because I’ve got wings?”

“I love your wings.”

“And bat ears.”

“The better to hear me whinge with,” Sherlock smirked.

“And fangs and claws,” John chuckled.

“The better to protect me with… and rip off my clothes. I did _like_ that shirt, you know.”

“Yeah, but you _love_ me,” John goaded.

Sherlock chuckled and leaned back against him, sighing happily as John’s wings wrapped tightly around him.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock replied smugly, then turned his head and nuzzled John’s neck.

“Good. That’s… good.”

John sighed and breathed in his lover’s scent as well. Soon they would return to London and more cases and John would tag along and goad Donovan and have drinks with Lestrade and life would resume as usual… fast paced and heart pounding.

John had never been more content in his life.


End file.
